


A Seal Over Your Heart

by luxwrites



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Confessions, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Miss me with that sad shit, Very happy ending, because i'm a heathen, crowley can transform into whatever he wants, one singular bible verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 23:09:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20105158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxwrites/pseuds/luxwrites
Summary: For three days, Aziraphale had sat on the chaise longue, thinking. He had thought through what had felt like thousands of possible outcomes. He had analyzed every interaction of theirs for the past century, and he felt somewhat of a private investigator. He weighed pros and cons, he made lists in his mind, he even prayed to the Almighty for an answer at one point. The room had been silent throughout these three days, not even a breeze daring to rattle the drainpipe.I can’t tell him, one side of Aziraphale’s brain reasoned. It was true. He couldn’t. He wasn’t ready for this truth to exist outside his mind. The other side of Aziraphale’s brain chantedbut I love himover and over and over and over again.*****Basically, Aziraphale suddenly realizes what he feels for Crowley is love, and has to come to terms with telling Crowley about it.





	A Seal Over Your Heart

Aziraphale sat on the end of the blue chaise in the small room, watching the spines of his books droop in sympathy on the crisp wooden shelves. The air in the room had gone stale days ago, but still Aziraphale sat, almost perfectly still, eyes fixed on the imposing wooden door.   
It hadn’t been anyone’s fault, Aziraphale reasoned. It wasn’t as though Crowley had said anything particularly out of the ordinary. It wasn’t as though Aziraphale’s thoughts had meant to tread along a well worn path only to veer off in a different direction. A direction that lead to a realization. A realization of a simple fact that, upon further thought, Aziraphale should have seen coming centuries—if not millennia—ago.   
The evening had proceeded like any other Monday evening of the twentieth century. An angel and a demon had dined at the Ritz and, after a few rounds of dessert and champagne, had retired to the little bookshop down the road. They had drunk the usual wine, and discussed whatever ideas managed to stumble their way across the tracks of their train of thought.   
Perhaps it was the wine—although Aziraphale had really only had a glass or two, too engrossed in conversation to want to indulge in inebriation—or perhaps it was the snow lightly falling outside in the streetlight, although that too had happened just the other week—or perhaps it was simply the way Crowley’s eyes shone in the moonlight. Whatever the reason, Aziraphale’s thoughts had managed to stray from their debate about pine trees to the sudden and undeniable fact; Aziraphale, an angel of the Lord and guardian of the West Gate, was completely, helplessly in love with a demon who wore sunglasses at night and like to inconvenience more than sin.   
It had hit Aziraphale like a truck (not that Aziraphale truly knew what this felt like, but he reassured himself that this stopping of all motion must be somewhat similar).   
_I’m in love with Crowley,_ Aziraphale had thought. And then, _Well… that’s inconvenient._ before the true weight of this realization had descended upon him.   
He loved Crowley. The only being who had stood by his side for the millennia between the Garden and the Present. The only other being who had watched empires rise and fall, and rise again. The only being Aziraphale would ever trust implicitly.   
A chasm opened in Aziraphale’s chest where he supposed his heart should be. Crowley was- well, Crowley was a being deeply flawed, his edges raw and sharp, his mind an upheaval of all Aziraphale knew to be true. But Crowley was also secretly—or not so secretly—kind, and generous, and despite the cold-blooded physicality, he was so incredibly _warm_. When Aziraphale sat next to Crowley, they were not angel or demon, they were not man or woman, they were not good or evil. They were neither and both. They were equal. In balance. _Right._  
His love poured so strongly he could feel it filling every limb and beginning to radiate outwards. He clamped it down as tightly as he could, but it was as if trying to catch again the scent of a particularly fragrant flower as one strolls down the pavement. Aziraphale had no doubt that, given the eternity in front of them, this love would reveal itself one way or another. Eventually.   
And the thing was, Aziraphale understood that there was a chance—perhaps even a good chance—that Crowley might feel the same way. But there was also a chance that he might not. And Aziraphale wasn’t entirely certain that, when this awful, miraculous love finally revealed itself, he’d be able to survive without Crowley’s love in return.   
Aziraphale had perched up from his lounging position on the chaise, all sense of relaxation dispersed.   
“You alright, Angel?” Crowley had asked.   
Aziraphale had barely had the strength to nod. “Yes, Crowley, thank you for your concern.” He tried to remember to speak with his words and not his celestial voice, but he wasn’t entirely certain he wasn’t using both. “I do believe it’s getting rather late, don’t you?”   
Crowley looked pointedly at his watch, which read barely half-past seven, then cocked an eyebrow. Aziraphale had never kept track of time, and the two often talked early into the next morning. Crowley particularly liked when they stayed up early enough to hear the birds begin their morning songs (unbeknownst to Aziraphale that it was because Crowley liked to watch his angel’s eyes light up in response to the bird’s greetings for the new day).   
“I’m really quite tired,” Aziraphale encouraged desperately, “and I should like to do some tidying before the evening’s through.”   
Crowley was rather quiet for several moments.   
“I could… stay and help… if- well, if you want?” Crowley hesitantly suggested.   
Aziraphale could feel the gates of his mind closing, could feel his grip slipping. He needed to _think_, and he needed to be _alone_.  
Without looking to Crowley, he simply said “No, my dear, you’d best be going.” It came out a bit colder than he had intended, but it couldn’t be helped now.   
Crowley stood, unfolding himself from the well-worn sofa he had nestled into, frowning. “Alright then,” said Crowley, “Yeah- well- sorry if I’ve overstayed my welcome then,” and he strode his long legs over to the door. Aziraphale almost missed Crowley glancing back over his shoulder as the door to the bookshop shut behind him.   
For three days, Aziraphale had sat on the chaise longue, thinking. He had thought through what had felt like thousands of possible outcomes. He had analyzed every interaction of theirs for the past century, and he felt somewhat of a private investigator. He weighed pros and cons, he made lists in his mind, he even prayed to the Almighty for an answer at one point. The room had been silent throughout these three days, not even a breeze daring to rattle the drainpipe.   
_I can’t tell him_, one side of Aziraphale’s brain reasoned. It was true. He couldn’t. He wasn’t ready for this truth to exist outside his mind. The other side of Aziraphale’s brain chanted _but I love him_ over and over and over and over again. For three days.   
In the end, it was a sparrow that pulled Aziraphale out of his thought-drunk stupor. The small bird thumped into the window, falling onto the sill before hopping up once again to peer inside. Aziraphale couldn’t help but let himself wonder at the bird’s persistence. The cold of the storm outside couldn’t have been pleasant for a creature so small.   
With a slight _crack_, Aziraphale stood for the first time in three days. With some effort, he managed to open the window just enough that the sparrow could fit through the opening should it so choose. The sparrow nudged its tiny head inside the crack and it peered curiously at Aziraphale before pulling the rest of itself into the warmth of the bookshop. It sat on the sill, it’s little head bobbing once in a while. A few small red feathers just under the bird’s head seemed slightly out-of-place amidst the brown and beige of the rest of the bird, but Aziraphale couldn’t be certain.   
_Besides,_ He thought, thinking of his many, many aimless conversations with the hierarchy of Heaven, _I’m a little out of place too. We can be out of place together._   
Aziraphale dug around his cupboards for a moment before finding what he’d been looking for: a small bag of bread crusts. He carefully pulled one out, and broke it into smaller pieces. Slowly, gently, he nudged a piece onto the sill beside the bird. It was thin, after all, and Aziraphale was obliged to care for _all_ of God’s creations. The bird reached over to peck at the piece of bread, and then stared at him again expectantly.  
Aziraphale smiled. In his thinking, he had been so afraid of loneliness. When Crowley finally realized Aziraphale’s love, Aziraphale had been terrified at the prospect of living the rest of eternity on his own. After all, even if Crowley was as kind about the ordeal as Aziraphale knew he would be, Aziraphale himself wasn’t certain that he would survive a confession so grand. To live with himself after this truth was out in the open… If Crowley didn’t feel the same way… _Well,_ Aziraphale reasoned, looking at the small bird on the sill, _at least I won’t be completely alone_.   
It was another four days before Aziraphale managed to sort through the rest of his feelings enough to actually leave his home. To prepare himself for any possible outcome, he had to consider every possible outcome, and this took time after all.   
On the evening of the seventh day, Aziraphale rose with a sigh. He took a last moment to admire his beautiful bookshop, and then donned his coat and walked into the crisp night air. Old snow sludged around his shoes as he shuffled along the quiet sidewalks towards Crowley’s apartment.   
The bird flitted alongside him. It had become a somewhat constant companion over the past week. He had a small paper bag of stale breadcrumbs in his pocket even now, just in case his bird might fancy a snack on their way.   
By the time Aziraphale arrived at the door to Crowley’s apartment, his shoes squelched from the damp Snow and his toes were beginning to lose feeling. The bird had flitted all the way to the building’s entrance, but it had stubbornly refused to come inside, despite the cold. Aziraphale wondered, but didn’t push it for fear of frightening the small creature off.   
Aziraphale barely managed to raise his hand to the doorbell when the door swung open on its own. Or, seemingly on its own at least. Because about fifteen feet from the door was Crowley’s steel-grey sofa. And on that sofa sat Crowley, one leg draped over the other, holding a half-empty glass of deep red wine. In other words, Crowley looked as he always did; elegant, unshakeable, and utterly divine. The only difference, Aziraphale noted with interest, was that he seemed to be shivering just slightly. The wine in the glass, usually only sloshed about to emphasize a particularly drunken point, let out small ripples along its surface.   
“_Angel_,” Crowley practically sighed, “How nice of you to… drop by.”   
Aziraphale sighed hopelessly and stepped inside the apartment, closing the door behind him. He took a deep breath (even though he didn’t necessarily need it) before striding confidently over to the chair beside the sofa, plopping himself down. He couldn’t seem to meet Crowley’s eyes.   
“Crowley,” he couldn’t help the smile that rose on his face as he said the name, “it’s been a rather long week, I’m afraid. I do apologize for not popping in a little sooner. I rather had some pressing business to attend to.”   
Crowley snorted into his glass of wine. “Oh, did you? Sure you didn’t just sleep for a week?”   
Aziraphale didn’t miss the obvious anger behind Crowley’s words, but he could hear the sadness behind it as well. Six thousand years alongside a friend will do that to a person. He had hurt Crowley by asking him to leave so curtly, and then he hadn’t reached out to remedy the situation. Aziraphale finally managed to meet Crowley’s eyes.   
“I assure you, my dear, I did nothing of the sort. I’m sorry for the abrupt end to our evening. There were some… _sudden realizations_ that I needed time to ponder.”   
Crowley frowned, “You could’ve just _told_ me that, y’know. ‘Stead of kickin’ me out.”   
Aziraphale reached out and settled a hand atop the one Crowley had rested on the arm of the sofa. Crowley’s hand was almost unbearably cold, and Aziraphale gasped.   
“Crowley, my dear, you’re freezing!” Aziraphale grasped the rest of his hand, holding it tight. There was no doubt; Crowley’s body temperature was far below normal, even for him. _No wonder the wine had been shaking_.   
While Crowley sat stunned by Aziraphale’s outburst, the angel arranged himself next to Crowley on the couch, gradually letting his love fill his heart, which in turn made him glow slightly and emit a gradually increasing warmth.   
Crowley didn’t move, didn’t even so much as flinch, so Aziraphale took it as a good sign. In fact, Crowley seemed to lean in to the warmth, much to Aziraphale’s surprise. Crowley would know that only love could produce this effect on an angel. He had to be wondering what could cause this swell of love in Aziraphale’s heart.   
_I suppose,_Aziraphale thought, _ there will never be a better time…_  
Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak.   
“I know, Angel.” Crowley beat him to it.   
“You- I- we- what?” Aziraphale spluttered.   
“I know. I wasn’t sure in the bookshop. I thought I felt… but then it was gone so quickly. And you were… you were cold.” Crowley reached a cool hand out to rest against Aziraphale’s cheek. “You’re never cold, Angel. Never.”   
Aziraphale let himself lean in to the touch. “I… I was scared…”   
“Mm, I thought you had been _fraternizing_ without me. I thought maybe you’d-“ Crowley’s voice caught for just a moment. His eyes met Aziraphale’s imploringly, and the angel could feel the desperation in his voice, “I thought maybe you’d found someone else. Someone I’d never known and never seen.”   
Aziraphale’s mouth dropped into a little “o”. “I’m sorry,” he said.   
“I know,” said Crowley, “I know _now_.” He reached into the angel’s pocket to pull out the small bag of breadcrumbs. “You like to mutter to yourself when you’re thinking…”   
The clicks in Aziraphale’s brain were almost audible from the pieces falling into place. Why Crowley had been so cold. Why the sparrow had stuck around, and where it had even come from in the first place.   
“The red feathers…” Aziraphale trailed off.   
“Yeah, there’s always somethin’ that shows through.”   
Aziraphale sat in silence for a moment, processing.   
“So you know,” he repeated, “I must admit, I’m both glad and saddened. I wish I’d had more time, of course, but at least you’ll understand why I must go this time.”   
Before Aziraphale could move to stand, Crowley’s hand gripped his arm, his eyes frantic.   
“What?! No, I really don’t!” Crowley’s eyes roamed over Aziraphale’s face, and the angel wanted to shrink in the face of his desperation.   
“Crowley, I love you,” It was the first time he’d said it out loud. It rolled off his tongue so easily. “But I cannot in good faith say I can be your friend for the next few millennia. I would come to expect this love in return, and I understand that you aren’t able to give it. I will need time to nurse my broken heart.”   
Aziraphale made to stand again and, despite Crowley’s scrabbling, actually managed to do so this time.   
“Angel,” Crowley’s voice stopped him mid-step on the way to the door. “You’re leaving because you think I can’t return your love?”   
Aziraphale nodded, not daring to speak. He could feel the loneliness descending. Like the nineteenth century all over again.   
“No other reason? Not because Gabriel or Michael told you not to consort with,” he waived a hand at his general personage, “the likes of me?”   
Confused, Aziraphale nodded again.   
Crowley took a step forward, then another. Then another.   
“Angel, I have loved you since you stood on the Eastern Gate over looking the world.” With each sentence he took a few more steps. “I have loved you since you told me you gave your sword away. Since you laughed at my jokes. Since you smiled at my eyes. Since you handed me a tartan thermos of holy water.” Crowley was close enough to breathe the same air as Aziraphale now. He reached over to take Aziraphale’s hand in his.  
Aziraphale, for his part, was rooted to the spot, transfixed.   
“Angel. _Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm,_” Crowley’s voice was gentle, no sarcasm anywhere to be found. “_For love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave,_” with each phrase, Crowley placed a small kiss on Aziraphale’s palm. “_It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame._” Crowley, Aziraphale noted, had begun to smoke slightly. “_Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot sweep it away._  
Aziraphale didn’t notice he was crying until Crowley reached up to wipe away the tears.   
“I love you, Angel. More than anyone has ever loved anyone in the history of the world. And I would know; I’ve lived it,” Crowley chuckled softly.   
Aziraphale found himself smiling too. They had lived the history of the world together, and they would live the future too.   
“Crowley, my love,” Aziraphale said quietly, “thank you for waiting for me.”

**Author's Note:**

> My computer is dying and I have to post this somewhere, so HERE *yeets it onto the internet*


End file.
